


Glory Be

by childoffantasy



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Coming Out, F/F, Falling In Love, Family, Family Bonding, Good Parent Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Growing Up, Lambert's pottymouth, Nonbinary Character, Trans Character, Trans Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, brief unsafe binding, literally everyone except Eskel is trans or gnc in this, no tranphobias in MY medieval fantasy, they/them lesbian Ciri
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:19:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25437556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/childoffantasy/pseuds/childoffantasy
Summary: When Ciri was fourteen, they looked up at their uncle Lambert one afternoon and said, “I want my hair cut like his.”A series of vignettes as Ciri grows up and grows into their identity as a they/them lesbian.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon/Cerys an Craite
Comments: 56
Kudos: 101
Collections: Soft Witcher Fics for Bad Days





	Glory Be

**Author's Note:**

> So the working title of this was "Glorious They/Them Butch Lesbian Ciri" and then I accidentally wrote about all the time before Ciri fully fledged in their identity but my friends all seemed excited so. 
> 
> I should actually go and try and find the fic I read a few months ago that first put this idea in my head, but it was about trans Geralt but nobody was cis in it so the author asked for suggestions about who else could be trans and BAM the concept of Ciri being the most glorious he/him or they/them butch lesbian the world has ever seen laid me flat out. I have a lot of love for adult Ciri so that's basically what this whole fic is hanging together on: How Ciri grows into someone who I would trip over my feet to see. 
> 
> Disclaimer, I'm a cis queer, so I hope I represented a trans experience effectively, and if anyone has concerns about how I'm representing these experiences please let me know.

When Ciri was fourteen, they looked up at their uncle Lambert one afternoon and said, “I want my hair cut like his.” Unfazed, Eskel ignored the glint in Lambert’s eye that said he would be boasting about being the favorite uncle for months and gone to find the scissors. Geralt, notably vain about his own hair, only winced a little bit when the first pale locks had hit the flagstones under Ciri’s bench, and accepted Vesemir’s mild comments that, “Hair will grow back,” with good grace.

Eskel offered once to cut Ciri’s hair to their shoulders and let them see how it looked before taking more off, but they were adamant they wanted it taken down to no longer than a half inch, and Eskel didn’t ask again. By the time Eskel was done Ciri’s pale hair looked rather like they had no hair left at all, but as Vesemir said, it would grow back and they could experiment with the style then.

The rest of the day, Ciri reveled in their newly short hair. The way they didn’t have to toss their hair out of their eyes constantly, the fact that it could no longer snag on the hilt of the sword across their back. No need to wash mud out at the end of the day or to lose painful strands to snags on the pendulum exercises. When they went for their bath that night, they caught a glimpse of their shorn head in the mirror the grown Witchers used to shave and were arrested at the sight. They didn’t look like The Princess anymore. All Ciri saw in the mirror was green eyes, high cheekbones, and a sharp chin, and it looked like _Ciri_. They were never gonna grow their hair out again.

Eventually Ciri’s hair grew out enough that they bore some resemblance to a fuzzy sunflower, considering the pale halo they were sporting, so they tracked down Eskel again to ask for a trim. This time they conceded to some minor styling efforts, resulting in their hair close cropped around the sides and back but left slightly longer on top where it began to curl. It turned out Ciri liked this style even better than being cut short all over, so over the course of a few haircuts Eskel fine tuned the look. This became a little ritual between the two of them, every few weeks Ciri would present Eskel with the scissors that worked best on hair and plop themself on the bench in front of him and they would sit quietly, sometimes talking softly, sometimes not, while Eskel worked.

One afternoon during their haircut, in the middle of extolling the virtues of short hair, from the functional to the aesthetic, Ciri paused, thought for a moment, and asked, “Why don’t Geralt and Vesemir keep their hair short?”

Eskel took a moment to think about it, hands still working, before answering, “I think they find the look of it is worth the work of it. You were just saying how much you like how your short hair looks, right? Well Geralt for sure, and I think Vesemir also get something like that out of having their hair long.”

Ciri fell silent to reflect on this, and realized that the way they sometimes wrinkled their nose at Geralt’s hair when it was flying loose and getting caught in his face was similar to how Geralt had made a face during Ciri’s first haircut. They apologized to Geralt in the privacy of their own mind, and that night went to find him to offer to help him comb out and wash his hair after a particularly muddy afternoon of training. Geralt looked a little surprised, but both of them were well practiced by this time in accepting gestures without requiring accompanying explanation so he simply nodded and turned to let Ciri reach.

Even if things were a little reversed, Ciri rather thought that Geralt understood more than either of them had yet said about why Ciri liked their short hair so desperately.

* * *

When Ciri was fifteen Lambert noticed their breathing was much more laboured during drills than normal one day. He didn’t have the long centuries of teaching experience Vesemir had, but he had never once seen a time where a sudden change like that was a good thing, so he kept a close eye on Ciri for the rest of the day. Some careful observation as Ciri stretched and moved through sword forms gave Lambert some clues as to the culprit.

What Lambert saw was some lumps indicative of knots tied under Ciri’s tunic, and some ridges like extra layers across their back. The effect was a more rectangular torso, if one ignored the places the knots were. What Lambert could infer from all of this, when combined with the changes to Ciri’s breathing, was that the littlest Wolf had gotten their hands on some bandages or fabric or something and tied them unhealthily tight around their chest. He was no babe in the woods, Lambert, he had walked the continent for many decades and met people of all shapes and inclinations, and he had seen other people try precisely this same type of binding Ciri was attempting. The thing was, he had also seen people come out the other side with damaged ribs, lungs that couldn’t hold all the air they were meant to, bruises and injury to the skin.

Maybe that sort of injury was worth it to somebody who would be able to spend their life sitting quietly, finding work as a clerk or minding a market stall, but Ciri was bound and determined to be a Witcher. When hunting monsters you needed every edge you could get, Ciri’s lungs needed to be in peak shape, just like the rest of their body. Lambert had to talk to them.

He wanted to not embarrass them or drag up anything they didn’t wanna talk about in public though, so he managed to catch Ciri on their way out of the baths, and sure enough tucked inside the pile of their training clothes but not perfectly hidden was a long roll of bandages. Ciri, in the way of teenagers trying to be subtle, immediately tucked the whole pile into their chest and attempted to look unconcerned.

“Did they not tell you my eyes are as sharp as my tongue, little Wolf?” Lambert bared his teeth just a bit when Ciri looked caught, then continued. “All I’m going to tell you is don’t tie yourself up with bandages like that, that’s how you get fucked up ribs and what kind of Witcher will you be if you can’t lift your sword above your shoulder?”

“I’ve gotta do _something_ about my chest,” Ciri protested. “Nothing fits right and my upper body strength isn’t good enough, I _know_ Vesemir has harder drills.”

“And also you read that one book about those warriors that cut one tit off, no doubt. Yeah, no, that’s a crock of shit by the way, take it from me. I’ll get Eskel to teach you how to redo the tunics and shit to fit you, he’s got the most patience for that, and after he teaches you how to sew you come to me. I know a thing or two about how to make yourself look the way you want with the way your clothes hang.

“Don’t look at me like that, child, you live as long as me and you’ll see all kinds of variant on human too.”

Ciri threw themself at Lambert, bundle of dirty training clothes abandoned to the floor of the hallway, and Lambert caught Ciri and leaned back to lift their feet effortlessly off the floor. This was no different than ever, even though Ciri was now several inches taller and a few stone heavier than when they had first come to Kaer Morhen. Nothing had yet managed to quell the exuberant affection of their littlest Wolf.

* * *

When Ciri was sixteen, they had long since reached their full height, and the years of training meant they were growing broad and strong through the shoulders, thighs, and arms. Even without any mutations, they were well on their way to holding their own against the grown Witchers, especially as their grasp of magic was becoming more powerful as quickly as the rest of their body.

Ciri’s training was not the traditional way the rest of the Wolves had been trained, but some things never change, and Vesemir had long since allowed the lesson structure and methods of teaching swordplay to sink into his bones as unshakeable habit. Even despite having had no trainees for decades, Vesemir could still do many of Ciri’s lessons automatically, his mind elsewhere. In the late spring, many of his thoughts would be occupied with the Sack of Kaer Morhen, the loss of so many of his brothers and students all in one fell swoop, when his surviving Wolves were all away on the Path, unable to distract him, and offering no certainty that they’d all make it home by the end of the season.

On a fine afternoon in May, one of the bright days where the sun was strong, but the close heat of summer had not yet settled in, Vesemir was putting Ciri through their paces. So focused was he on gauging their progress compared to the boys of the same age he had trained over the centuries that had anyone asked, Vesemir might have sworn he could see the shades of half a dozen other trainees. In his mind’s eye Ciri fit well in the line of young Wolves drilling sword forms first against the air, then against the pell and pendulum, then switching to their offhand and repeating the whole sequence again.

Vesemir’s practiced eye caught the flash of light as the tip of Ciri’s sword wobbled in the offhand drill.

“Lad!” he barked. “I don’t care if you’re tired, keep that wrist stable or else it’ll collapse in the middle of a fight!”

Ciri’s sword didn’t drop, they were far too well trained to make the beginner mistake of losing their weapon to something as minor as being surprised, but their eyes widened and their heartrate kicked up just a bit faster than the exercise deserved. Vesemir, well attuned, caught the reaction and took a long moment to realize what he had said that was out of the ordinary.

Of course, Ciri was not one of his lads, though they were hardly Princess Cirilla either. Ciri said nothing, however, and returned to their drills, the tip of the steel practice blade perfectly under control this time.

The rest of the afternoon Vesemir kept himself firmly in the present and focused on Ciri, who was unusually quiet until dinner. Most likely Ciri wasn’t terribly upset, they tended to sulk far more violently than that when they felt insulted but Vesemir was entirely aware that raising a teenager required a certain amount of talking about ones’ emotions.

“Are you alright, child? I was lost in my head this afternoon; I shan’t let that happen again.”

Ciri looked up, startled. “What? Oh. No no, that’s alright. You can call me lad if you like, it fits at least as well as child does these days I think.”

Vesemir’s lips twitched into a small smile that mostly hid behind his spoon, and Ciri’s shy grin spread and grew in reply, and over their shoulders Vesemir saw the smiles of dozens of other young Wolves he had known and who he could see in Ciri.

* * *

When Ciri was seventeen, a number of conversations happened.

\--

“Geralt?”

“Ciri. You alright?”

“I – yeah. It’s just. You know I’m not a girl, right?”

“I know now.”

“Yeah. I mean. You’re not surprised or anything, huh?”

“Not particularly. Would you like me to talk to the others, make sure they know too?”

“No, I think I wanna do that myself. But no point making it any big secret or anything, I haven’t been the princess in so long, may as well be upfront about that.”

“Of course. Thank you for letting me know.”

“Oh! Thank you!”

\--

“Geralt! It’s been too long!”

“Indeed. You look well, Zoltan.”

“Aye. A prosperous season. Speaking of prospering, the rumours say you have a new trainee tucked away in your den.”

“A child I won by Surprise. Figured a Witcher’s training was the best we had to give.”

“A girl then? That Cintran princess was the only surprise anyone had ever known you to claim.”

“Ciri is no kind of princess. We train Wolves in our school, and the child has been adamant about being a Wolf before all else.”

“You Witchers and Witchers-to-be have your priorities in order then! Clan first!”

“Mm. How have your brothers been, Zoltan? Speaking of.”

“Well enough! Another one married this year, so we’ve all been home for the wedding.”

“Pass on my congratulations?”

“Certainly. His husband is a fine craftsman, they’re well matched. I have a deadline for my caravan so I’ll be off, but I’ll keep an ear out for tales of your young Wolf, Geralt!”

\--

“Tell me Witcher, is it that your breed are so very much reduced that you have come to take in girl-children?”

“Master Guilder, I in turn am curious to know what part of our acquaintance thus far has led you to believe I will answer questions about the details of my own trade when you have not so far given me a straight answer about this single contract we are here to discuss.”

“Well see here! It’s perfectly reasonable for me to want to be sure any of you I hire can do the job!”

“Certainly, but the Witcher you have in front of you today is the one that matters most, wouldn’t you say? Because you need your monster dealt with now, not in the future by my protégé. So, it matters whether or not you trust that _I_ can do the job you wish to hire _me_ for.”

“Now, I – “

“I wasn’t finished, Master Guilder. I invite you to consider also that it matters whether or not I trust _you_ to hold up your end of the contract. The success of your livelihood makes no difference to me in the case that you choose not to pay me, but it may make a great difference to you if I tell my compatriots not to take your contracts.”

“… I see. You shall have your coin, Witcher. Once the beast is gone.”

“I should have half of it now, and half on completion, but I’ll be generous today, after our little discussion.”

“Very well. We have an accord.”

“And may I say, Master Guilder, should Kaer Morhen bear any She-Wolves in the future, they would still be Wolves, and _all_ our young have sharp teeth.”

* * *

When Ciri was eighteen the Wolf School presented them with a medallion and sent them on the road to make their fortune as generations of Witchers had before them. They spent much of that first year exploring as much of the continent as they physically could. It wasn’t like Ciri had been cooped up in the fortress in the mountains for years, with no taste or experience of the outside world, but exploring the land and learning the trade of a Witcher while under the sharp and experienced eyes of Vesemir or Geralt was a very different matter from being in the world on their own, to get into and out of their own scrapes.

One such scrape turned out to be literal, if minor, on a drizzly afternoon in Skellige. Ciri was in the midst of negotiating a contract with someone named Crach, the head of Clan an Craite, who had something that sounded like a wraith quite determinedly interrupting the shearing. The clanchief was talking while showing Ciri towards the lower pastures where the disturbance had been occurring, and they had mostly tuned him out a few minutes back when he’d started repeating information he’d already covered, this time with the odd argument about why he might not have to pay the full fee for a proper removal of a wraith thrown in.

Despite only being on the Path less than a year, Ciri was already familiar with and tired of the common excuses used to weasel out of payment. The landscape of Skellige, meanwhile, was familiar in a comfortable way. During trips to the Isles with Eist as a young child, Ciri had never been to the chalk hills that Clan an Craite held, but the spirit the Isles held was as present here as it was anywhere else they had been, and despite the weaseling from the headman Ciri was perfectly pleased to do a service to the region.

Wraith or no wraith, the shearing had to happen, and various people were milling about, trying to subtly get a look at the Witcher, or herd sheep, or gossip, or all three at once. The only person who seemed to be moving with any great intention was at the other end of the lane, heading towards Ciri and Crach rapidly, bellowing directions in a tone that expected to be obeyed.

The first thing Ciri ever noticed about Cerys an Craite was that voice, projected from the chest in a respectable battlefield yell that carried across pastures and hills as effectively as it might a field of warriors. The second and third things, in rapid succession, were her firebrand red hair, and the ease with which Cerys stomped up the road with one sheep under each arm. Somewhere in the midst of realizing that Cerys was nearly as broad and powerful in the shoulder and arm as Ciri was themself, they managed to not see an open gate in their path and nearly went headfirst over it, the rough wood taking the skin off Ciri’s palms where they caught themself.

In the desperate scramble to recover from tripping over their feet like some stripling while trying to make it look like the Witcher was not actually entirely distracted at nothing more than the sight of a pretty lady, Ciri found time to curse the blush heating their cheeks and send a small prayer up that the lady in question hadn’t seen that spectacularly graceless move. Trying to tune back into what Crach was saying, Ciri was very intently not staring when Cerys stopped long enough to update Crach on the progress in the middle fields and to be introduced to Ciri. Ciri even scraped together some professionalism to nod politely and introduce themself before Cerys hauled one sheep higher up her hip, nodded at Ciri, and continued up the street, shepherds scattering in her wake.

With a massive act of will, Ciri pulled together the scattered threads of their train of thought enough to focus on what Crach had to say. In short order it became apparent he was still on the repetitive lecture that had Ciri tuned out in the first place, so they used the opportunity to give themself a stern talking-to about the importance of remaining focussed in the face of any monster, no matter how common or simple the situation seemed, and despite whatever distractions may appear. By the time Crach had led Ciri to the fields that had been affected, they were pretty sure they were over the temporary madness that had come over them at the sight of Cerys.

(At dinner that night, the wraith long gone, Ciri discovered that the madness was less temporary than expected.)

* * *

(When Ciri was twenty-two Cerys kissed them softly on the mouth and Ciri resigned themself to never escaping that particular gentle madness.)

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on tumblr, I'm [childoffantasy](https://childoffantasy.tumblr.com), yell at me about how none of your faves are cisgender and heterosexual.


End file.
